


Poisonous

by IrisPurpurea



Series: Inktober 2018 [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Deathly Hallows, Inktober 2018, M/M, Young Dumbledore, Young Grindelwald, poisonous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:11:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisPurpurea/pseuds/IrisPurpurea
Summary: Would he die, just a little?





	Poisonous

It’s imperceptible at first, buried beneath heady sweetness, mulled wine and honey and the fervent burn of firewhiskey mingling in his throat. Their days together are feverish and tinged with gold.

Albus reads in his armchair by the fire and he’s squeezed in beside him, legs across his lap and arms around his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck, sleepy and still but stirring every so often to press his lips to his collarbone. He folds himself further into him; they twist around each other like trees growing too close in a forest.

The sweetness lingers long on his tongue, they lie in the sunlight and the prickly grass on the hill behind the cottage, fingers intertwined as they sketch their dreams into the blue sky. They could restore balance, order, prosperity, peace. They could conquer death. They could reshape the whole world in their image. He says something brilliant and Gel laughs loud and harsh and rolls on top of him to catch his face and kiss him until he’s drunk and stumbling. They could build something beautiful together.

From the moment they meet they are binary stars, drawn by each other’s brilliance, collapsing into each other. Every accidental brush of their fingers or knees is incendiary. After a mere week together, he can hardly take it anymore and he draws him close and threads his fingers through his golden hair. They tangle together, his lips on his neck and his fingers splayed across his abdomen. He’s never had this before, the freedom to spill his every thought to another brilliant mind and to pour out his heart to a kindred soul, the longing to be close to someone, a real, tangible chance to leave the life he dreads behind. They find in each other a match for unmatched brilliance, a true believer in their wildest ambitions. Power and promise, together, they are unfettered, unrestrained, and deeply understood. 

They sit against the wall with their legs woven together, lazy and warm and drawing strange-looking eyes in the dust on the floor. He's forgotten to sweep again, but it hardly matters. A line in the dust, his eyes gleam oddly; raw, unimaginable power, but only for whichever one of them catches hold of it first. He leaves a soft kiss on his cheek and a swooping in his stomach. A circle around the line; all his burdens dissolved. And an unconquerable army, he adds, with a trail of kisses along his jaw, a brush of his thigh, the pop of a button. A triangle in the dust, connected to the line and circle. Unremarkable, unnecessary. No, he counters, a hand on his chest. We need all three. We could hide her, keep her safe. We'd be... free... forever... their foreheads together, his knees pressed against his hips, his hands on his skin and his hands in his hair, their lips meeting, again and again.

Shot after shot of firewhiskey, burning in his chest and sending flames dancing across his skin. He clings to him, pulls him ever closer, and he drinks, he drinks, he drinks. He drinks through the bitterness rising in his throat, swallowing it back down, drinks through the sharp pain of shattered glass in his stomach. He drinks until his brother and sister are screaming for him to stop, until his gut wrenches and he finds himself choking, don’t kill them, please, kill me instead. Kill me, kill me. 

He is everything, he is sweetness and delirium and aching temptation. What wouldn’t he give to reach into the Mirror of Erised? His skin still prickles to think of him, longing burning in the pit of his stomach. What wouldn’t he sacrifice for just one more taste?

Would he die, just a little?

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of fics based on the Inktober 2018 prompts. Day 1: Poisonous.


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